The Physics of Madness

Among methamphetamines, domestic violence, child abuse and neglect, a teenager sadistically explores his environment and conscience in an attempt to find meaning in his world, within this universe. Displaced and dispassionate, he embraces the attrocities of murder and necrophilia while coming to terms with his own ill conceived soul. Some things should never be born.

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The Physics of MadnessAuthorHouseCopyright © 2009 PSMAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4389-8212-0Chapter One1.1.1 I hate the salty roads of winter, especially after a couple days of wet snow. After the rusted cars of this county had ground the dirt and assorted cigarette butts into the asphalt, the hazy sun of winter would then bleach the unholy mess into some stained memory of regret and shame, and the whole image ultimately becomes a reminder of how days ago children played in their front yards watching the snowplows clear away the purity of heaven's gift so their parents could get to the places they so desperately needed to go. Maybe the salt just exaggerated the fact that I hate roads-not just any road, but the roads in this county. In seventeen years, they've led me nowhere. With the sensation of salt being ground into a freshly slit finger, I recoil at the thought of how this all began. Call it desperation; call it a pathetic inability to motivate myself to see beyond the valley in which my county, my self-proclaimed hellhole, lies: whatever it may be, I just can't visualize anything beyond those signs that state, "You're leaving Morgan County." They're a figuratively cursed wall: a reminder of the confines of my prison. Often, I've joked that this is purgatory. Occasionally, that rare moment when someone was within earshot, my words would be validated-This is hell. That opening into a potential conversation would begin and end with those introductory words and a familiar glance of disdain and distrust. I have vague memories of studying the Greek gods and goddesses from the books I had stolen from the school library. I remember Aphrodite the best. In sixth grade, the thought of her fueled my nights of lust and desire, lonely and dispassionate. I've masturbated to my vision of her; I've jerked off while dreaming of a goddess. I'm sure more than a few God-fearing people would cringe at the thought of a man ejaculating to such a beautiful vision, a vision of unadulterated beauty. The sacrament of godlike figures is generally revered despite orthodox differences. The fundamental acceptance of fate and God allow for a baseline of spiritual faith, a foundation for hate. Aphrodite was always naked while emerging from the Black Sea. She desired me and would consume me, as if I were her possession. My fantasy wasn't about love. It wasn't so much about sex. She'd just devour me, undulating in orgasm. I was her sexual toy-flesh on flesh. Our orgasms defined an element of cosmic origin: perverse in its desperation and incongruity, we were in synchronization with simplicity-the basic elements of creation. Her genitals were wired into the cosmos, the incomprehensible Big Bang. I had enough sense to know that I could never possess a goddess. I'm no Adonis; I'm a pathetic mortal who continually pounds his head against the asphalt roads of this county. That's what allowed my fantasy to exponentially increase in its intensity: my lack of control. Aphrodite repeatedly used me as a dominatrix would use her submissive. The salt water of the Black Sea, on her breasts, tasted like the guilty pleasure of sin; I repeatedly suckled them-as often as she'd allow. The further I succumbed to my fantasy, the saltier her breasts became; and, as I ventured further into the depths of her temptation, the less I experienced life. At least, I didn't embrace the core essence of it: relationships with those who are similar to you. With each explosive orgasm, I became more removed from humanity and my seemingly irrelevant purpose in this universe. Within each of the billions of galaxies, there are over a billion stars. For each star, there are unknown possibilities for planets. Somewhere among it all, there's Earth; there's this county; and then, there's me-resembling nothing. If only I had the talent, I would have chiseled away at a marble slab and created, for the entire world to share, my vision of perfection: my sweat and inspiration immortalized in that stone mined from this miserable planet. 1.1.2 Morgan County is occupied by 3,000 or so other people. The elders seem content enough. They're just waiting for their hearts to finally give out-literally and figuratively-nothing fancy. Just one day, their thoughts and memories would converge into death before falling into nothing. That's it. They're laid out in a casket or run though an oven at a crematorium. I've never confirmed it, but I have always believed that the smoke that I sometimes saw from some town, unknown miles in the distance, was the last vestige of the unknown dead. I've been curious, but the roads have not led me there because, as I said before, I ram my skull into that wall of "You're leaving Morgan County." Maybe it's obvious, but it bears mentioning: The signs don't offer the platitude of come back soon or anything like that. You're just leaving, and those who are leaving are quite happy to be doing so. The smell of rubber burning against the asphalt as the accelerator is ceremoniously slammed to the floorboard of the car, as a beer can is tossed out the window, is the last memory a lot of children have of their daddies. Many fathers have left on a quest for bigger and better things. It sure sounds nice, but one look at the hapless mothers and their hapless children more accurately conveys the reason behind the long-forgotten daddies leaving: they just wanted out of their miserable existences. I don't doubt for a minute that they are miserable somewhere else, with another knocked-up one-night stand, ready to move on; but, all that lies elsewhere, beyond my self-imposed walls. Maybe I care. More likely, I don't. Regardless, I can't help but dwell on those possibilities when I see a young child-dirty, smeared with gunk and stale chocolate-trying to hold his mother's hand, attached to arms scabbed from months of picking at the methamphetamine bugs crawling beneath her skin. To that child, Mommy is beautiful. To me, she's ugly-a wretched remnant of what shouldn't be. But don't get me wrong; she's beautiful enough for a drunken man every weekend. More children will be born into this county. More men will leave. Obviously, childhood and its innocence are quickly lost here. The local park is seldom used by those it was intended for. Hypodermic needles and beer cans are strewn about the weeds and dead grass. The swings are rusted and mostly used by the lone teenager who needs a place to smoke a joint. I've sat on those swings. I never smoked, but there I have sat-despondent and void of any legitimate desire to be anywhere else. It's not as if the swings were comfortable, but the essence of what I understood to be my soul lacked the energy to motivate me into relocating. Certainly, one step followed the other. It's a standard progression of anatomical movement with legs and feet working in unison to transport a body-a head, all the parts that constitute a person-to some thought-out location with, in a perfect world, a happy meeting of desire and resolution. But, what seems obvious is often lost within the quagmire of stagnant thought. When the concept of becoming something greater than what is presently experienced has become that fabled fallacy of those pathetic dreamers who only exist in books, the soul becomes stagnant-virtually dead, like the depths of the Black Sea. It's not as though home's any better. The rust, the oxidation on the chains of those swings, only reminded me-and most anyone else who has sat where I sat-that the storm doors of home were also rusted. Hell, they were all but ripped from the door frames. Mom, like so many other mothers, had a series of boyfriends: live-in lovers, one-night stands, friends with benefits, and just vile men in her life. I can't remember any of her endeavors into love not consisting of screams and violence. Somewhere, among that chaos, she'd occasionally include an interaction with me, hostile playfulness. My five-year-old body had once possessed enough momentum to bust out the rear storm door. I know a couple equations associated with physics because I have stolen a lot of books about it. An easy translation was this: my mom provided my five-year-old ass the velocity; a body in motion tends to stay in motion unless an outside force is introduced; the storm door was that force; I busted partially through the glass; the glass separated my skin; blood was released. Energy was neither created nor destroyed. I tended to my own wounds. But, she loved me. Maybe there was a time I was embarrassed by the plastic sheets that were stapled to every exterior window frame to cut down on the winter drafts, but if that time existed, and I truly doubt it, it was long ago-some fleeting realization that came and went with the emergence of puberty. None of Mom's boyfriends had seemed inclined to replace the broken windowpanes. The window frames were rotted from years of seasonal exposure to the elements. The paint had long been chipped away, even prior to our residency. Facts are hard to ignore. Every house and trailer, on my street, was fixed up the same way-keeping up with those folks who had it better than you. That's how I had come to terms with it, when my pubic hairs emerged and my hormones flooded my brain. Embarrassment is a product of an awareness that something about you is substandard or deviating from the norm of what surrounds you. Everything about Morgan County was substandard; every aspect of this county's existence was several standard deviations from the norm. I'm white trash, but so are my neighbors-my teachers, the local law enforcement, the pediatrician, and the local government officials. When you're part of a whole, a faction of society, the whole is not too dissimilar to its components. Even the concept of poverty exists among the rich and its subcultures; it's all a matter of perspective-dissect the slivers of social strata until differentiation becomes pointless. More than a few celebrities are just white trash in expensive costumes. Ultimately, we're all human beings with a very limited life span in an infinite space. In the grand scheme of things, who cares who you are? Death is a great equalizer. Despite my attempts at comprehension and rationalization, facts are facts: Society's laws weren't applicable in this county. About the only thing that garnered attention was murder. No one reported rape. Domestic violence was just the norm for people cohabitating: it was to be expected; it was the man's right to keep his woman in line; women accepted their place in this microcosm of society, a place that should have been abolished with civil rights. With that knowledge, I had no reason to be embarrassed. Windows were often broken by objects made airborne during a spat. Sometimes, they were broken by a fist intending to demonstrate what would come next if the bitch didn't shut up. If my mom was any example, that bitch wouldn't shut up and would receive her beating despite the well-expressed warning given by some drunk male in a tattered heavy metal t-shirt. I don't remember his name; I really don't remember any of their names, just their faces. But, he was the worst for my mother and me. He broke many windows. He broke my mother's nose, her arm, my right index finger and cheekbone, and what was left of my then twelve-year-old spirit. He was one of the few men who genuinely instilled fear in me. I was not then, or now, easily frightened, scared, or prone to be concerned about broken bones. Stuff happens and you deal with it, but he is someone who still makes me scream in my occasional nightmare. I'm not talking about screaming in my dreams; I'm talking about that dream that wakes you in the midst of a guttural cry for help. Bruises are nothing. If a man only bruised the woman occasionally, he was considered marriage material-an absolute catch-something to screw until eternity comes crashing down. The fact he bruised your child only meant he was good father material because, at least, he was involved enough to discipline. Spare the fist and you spoil the bastard. We all need discipline. Broken bones were another matter, but it wasn't as though it meant the end of the relationship; it never did. It just indicated that he was overly stressed because he worked too hard or was unable to find work. The latter tended to be the norm. That's why he drank so much, and because of the needy and undisciplined bastard child, he drank more and did his drugs. Drugs are just as prevalent as alcohol. If you drank, you did drugs. No pity here, I'm just stating how it is and will continue to be for most of the children in this shithole of a town. Discipline was a matter of severity and acceptance; the mothers dealt with their guilt, and shame, over hushed whispers and the consumption of chemicals and beer-or a lackluster blowjob and a kiss. 1.1.3 It was after he moved on, and my mother went back to the town bar to whore herself, that I started my walks at dusk. Dawn was just too early, so I can't describe that end of the continuum. I just know that I love the dusk. It was during those brief moments that I could almost understand hope. The sun was falling; the night was crawling. I've been told it's because of pollution, but the pinkish hues of the sky, marbleized by the gray clouds, seemed to momentarily make everything look clean-pure in a surreal way. It was nothing tangible, and I won't say that it was beautiful. As I stated before, Aphrodite was beautiful. This was just nice. And, nice is just about as good as it gets for me. I would often sit on a dilapidated rock wall of my choosing and absorb the events unfolding. I could hear the arguments and see the occasional shadowy figures through the plastic-covered windows with their arms flailing, bodies falling, feet stomping, the distorted words of pleas for help as the fists came crashing down (again and again), doors slamming, the windows breaking, and the yelping of dogs while their legs were rotated 360 degrees. The chaos of violence is an amazingly perfect circle of darkness and despair. More often than not, abusive people love to hurt the pets of the ones they're abusing. It's certainly a great way to get the pathetic kids' attention: kill their beloved friends. Even puppies in this town look sad and miserable, torn and tattered. Torture can establish control and command respect. It's bullshit, but it works. Other times, I would walk and imagine that I was stalking some unknown prey within the night. It made me feel kind of strong, and that was necessary because I was physically weak. All my life, I had been frail. At least, that's what I had always been told; Mom always said it was genetics. Now, I know that it had to do with something more basic: Mom didn't cook; she didn't shop. She was too busy with her men and drugs. Scavenging may be too strong of a word. It wasn't as though I was in a dumpster behind a convenience store scavenging for scraps. It's just that, when I opened the refrigerator door, it was virtually barren. Usually, I could find stale bread and peanut butter in a cabinet. Like salmonella in chicken shit, that was the norm. I know kids who had it worse, so I'm not complaining. I just know that it wasn't merely genetics that made me feel retarded. I read somewhere that the environment is one of the greatest determinations of how an individual will evolve. Genetics can be horribly overrated. A physics prodigy, with all the genetic code, raised in this county, could easily become a drunken algebra teacher-that, or an incarcerated sociopath-a sociopath teaching algebra in prison: operations, variables, and root foundation. None of that genetic crap ultimately means anything: we can all become that prison bitch, after lockdown. That's the core of it all, in the end. A miscalculation still has a result: a bloodied equation with dispassionate truth. When I was fourteen, Mom slapped me good and disappeared for a couple of nights. All I had done was this: I asked her, "Were you doing methamphetamines when burdened with me, the fetus?" I took her response as an overly dramatic yes. But that was Mom. If she wasn't passed-out drunk or crashing from some manic high, she was dramatic. Certainly, I was used to her shenanigans, but they wore on me. She smacked me in the face, and I spat in hers; it was comical. (Continues...) Excerpted from The Physics of Madness Copyright © 2009 by PSM. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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